“There is another line, Señor Frade,” Peter said. “I don’t know who wrote it, some Englishman probably. It had to do with the charge of the light brigade at Balaclava: ‘Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to ride…’ et cetera.”
“I believe it ends, ‘into the valley of death,’ mi Comandante,” Clete said.
“I don’t like this conversation at all,” Alicia said.
“Neither do I,” the Princess said.
“This is a friendly conversation, with literary overtones, between friends. Isn’t that right, Señor Frade?”
“Absolutely, mi Comandante.”
“If you’re friends,” the Princess said with surprising firmness, “then you should stop that ridiculous ‘mi Comandante’ and ‘Señor Frade’ business.”
“Princess, there is nothing that makes a brand-new comandante happier than to hear himself called ‘Comandante,’” Clete said, laughing.
Alicia gave him a dirty look. Peter laughed.
“We have a saying in the Luftwaffe that there is nothing faster than a brand-new Unterfeldwebel—I think you say ‘Corporal’—rushing to his first noncommissioned officers’ meeting,” Peter said. “But may I suggest we indulge the ladies? May I call you ‘Cletus’?”
“You may call me ‘Clete,’ my friend. It’s ‘Hans-Peter,’ right? Do I call you ‘Hans’ or ‘Peter’?”
“Peter, if you please,” von Wachtstein said.
“Tell me, Peter,” Clete asked mischievously, “when you were a little boy, did they call you ‘Hansel’?”
“Hansel?” the Princess asked.
“As in Hansel and Gretel,” Clete explained. “The fairy tale.”
“Oh, yes,” the Princess said. “Of course.”
“Yes, they did,” Peter said. “My parents called me Hansel until…I guess until I went off to the university. And sometimes afterward.”
There was something in his tone, something artificially bright, that made Clete look at him. And then he saw that his eyes were very thoughtful. Sadly thoughtful.
Well, what the hell. He’s a long way from home, too, and it’s the day after Christmas. And home for him is not somewhere safe like the States. We’re bombing hell out of Germany.
“Clete,” Peter said, “before I forget it. I don’t want to bore the ladies with business, but I need a service, a favor. Could I call on you?”
“I owe you,” Clete said. “You’ve got a blank check, Peter.”
“Excuse me?”
“You name it, you’ve got it, my friend.”
“Thank you,” Peter said. “I understand.”
The Princess’s hand patted Clete’s leg under the table.
“That’s much nicer,” she said. “Thank you.”
If she doesn’t take that hand away, I’m going to get a hard-on to end all hard-ons.
She didn’t, and he did. And she moved her hand so there could be absolutely no doubt in his mind that she was aware of his physiological transformation and had a possessive interest in it.
He looked at her face. Total innocence.
“What are you thinking, Clete?” the Princess asked.